


Oxygen

by Cecilia (ceciliaregent), ceciliaregent



Series: Porphyry [3]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vampires, gangbang (not like that), if you want an actual gangbang go check out Telesilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceciliaregent/pseuds/Cecilia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceciliaregent/pseuds/ceciliaregent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buster gets blown up, and blows his cover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxygen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophiahelix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/gifts), [anna_unfolding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_unfolding/gifts).



> So I wasn't going to add to this series. But...Sophia's been having a bad couple of weeks, and Buster's injury has been in the news again. Also, despite the fact that this is totally schmoopy and self-indulgent, I would like to point out that I did research. Medical research! About arteries and veins! So at least there's that.

When he comes to after a white-out moment, he's face-down in the dirt, his fingernails dug into the grit and his fangs out. He hasn't felt anything like it since the change, every nerve on fire as blood fights its sluggish way around his system, heading towards his ankle, and God, why didn't he eat before the game, how could he have been so stupid. Part of him knows that the cameras are on him, and he presses his mouth into the dirt, red with the iron he needs, so inaccessible, until he can put his fangs away, and then Dave's there, kneeling down next to him, head on the ground, and Buster gasps, "Tim," the only word he can form. It's the only thing he says -- Dave says something about the cart, asks him about what hurts, asks him and asks him, and all Buster can do is mouth Tim's name. He doesn't know if Dave knows, but it doesn't matter, he can't hide it now. From somewhere down in the dugout Tim's panicked heart pounds in his ears, and he knows dimly he's got a roaring headache, except it's drowned out by his leg, and by the rising tide in his veins.

They push him down on the cart as soon as he's into the tunnel and roll him down into the training room, towards the x-rays, but he doesn't care, he doesn't need the machines, he just needs -- he needs -- he needs, he's so weak, and he's about ten seconds from grabbing Dave by the throat when Tim is there, pushing the trainers aside, saying "get out, get out, just--" and yanking his collar down, kneeling down over Buster and bending his neck into Buster's mouth. There's a terrible moment when he can't get his fangs to go; he needs the blood so much, but everything's down in his leg, all his energy trying, futilely, to plug up the raveled ligaments, the shattered bone, and all he can do is lie there, Tim's warm skin right against his mouth. He can't even lift his hand to touch Tim's side. Then "come on," Tim mutters, "come on," and Buster takes one sobbing breath and does it, pierces Tim's skin. 

The points of his fangs sink in just a little and Buster hears Tim's breath suck in. "Harder," he gasps, his voice muffled by Buster's crumpled uniform, and he's right, it's not quite enough; Buster pulls himself together and goes deeper, the knife-edges slicing in through the soft flesh, directly into Tim's external carotid, and as the oxygen sings into his own system he remembers telling Tim, months ago, what to do if he was in bad shape, if the sun or a stake or starvation got to him, how he'd need arterial blood instead of the venous he normally makes do with. Tim had looked blank, and Buster had tapped his neck just under his ear, where he usually feeds, making Tim shiver and drift closer. _"That's your jugular,"_ he'd said. _"It's safer. But if I need it--"_ he'd drawn his thumb around and pressed, slowly, Tim's flesh shivering at his touch _"--give me this."_

He hasn't got the time, now, to think about how Tim had said, _"Why don't you show me where?"_ , how his eyes had rolled back and his knees had buckled when Buster had, bit right where he'd always known better than to go. An indulgence of the offseason, all the time in the world for Tim to recover, for the scuffed bruise at the front of his neck to heal, and he'd taken half a cup or so, his head light and the dark sparkling behind his closed eyelids, before tearing himself away, scooping Tim off his feet and sweeping him into the bedroom. No time to think about that now, because Tim's blood, so much of it, is channeling through the hollow grooves in his fangs, straight to the pulsing black pain in his leg, and it's not stopping, it's just flowing, and his fangs are sinking deeper, his fingers closing tight around Tim's wrists, though Tim's not fighting to get away, just the opposite, he's sagging into Buster's chest and -- he shoves Tim off him as all his damaged cells try to knit back together at once, and though he tries to clamp it down, he screams anyway, grabbing the edge of the cart he's still lying on and screwing his eyes shut against the pain.

The worst passes after a few moments, and he sucks in deep breaths even though they don't do him any good; all the oxygen he's getting is Tim's. But it's good discipline, counting in ten, holding ten, out ten, something to focus on that's not his leg, that's not the memory of Tim's cooling skin against his just now. He ought to care much more that his cover's blown, that no amount of glamor will get him out of this, but when he opens his eyes again all he can really see is Tim, sagging back against the wall, his hand clutched to his neck, runnels of blood seeping out between his fingers and staining the neck of his home jersey. His eyes are huge, wild, and as they meet Buster's he pushes off the wall, upright, and says "you need more than that," and the stubborn set of his jaw is so like the look on his face that day, years ago, when Tim was just a boy on a screen, that Buster has to close his eyes again, because his entire body is straining towards what Tim is offering, and he clenches his teeth and gets out, "not from you." 

He will never know what Tim would have said, though later, sitting at the kitchen table wrapped in two sweatshirts and a blanket, drinking juice, Tim will say that of course he would have made Buster stop before it got too bad, that he knew what his own body could take better than Buster did, and Buster will say to him "no, you don't."

But now, he's just opening his mouth when there's a knock on the door; neither of them answers but it opens anyway, Cain shouldering in, and Tim turns towards him, startled, and Cain says "How much does he need?"

Buster pushes up on one elbow. He can't think, his leg screaming at him, his head thick with the smell of Tim's blood and the sudden new scent of Cain, all the heartbeats he can hear from the locker room outside now that the door is open. "I don't--," he starts, but Cain's already shaking his head, unbuttoning his jersey. 

"What do I do?" he says to Tim, his voice calm and still, like he's on the mound, and Tim's breath catches but he says "It doesn't hurt," and touches Matt's neck to show him where.

When he's taken what he can he stops; it's easier now, with more blood in him, and also because Matt's not Tim, though his blood is good, rich, and plenty of it. He doesn't even have to move, and Bumgarner follows Cain; Buster can smell his fear but he doesn't hesitate when Buster, who's getting stronger, reaches up and pulls his head down; and Sandoval follows Maddy, his eyes suspicious, muttering something in Spanish under his breath that makes Buster's lips, where they touch his skin, buzz with power, but his blood pulsing steady as a metronome. 

When he's pretty much done, when the agony in his leg is down to a dark and sluggish swirl, he drops his head back against Tim's thigh, feeling Tim shift a little, getting more comfortable against the wall where he's been sitting, one hand in Buster's hair. There's so much to be done, the trainers to explain to, Boch, the team, the press; but it can wait a little longer, while Buster listens to Tim breathe.


End file.
